Flying High
by Zofie C. Field
Summary: Delphine is in the airport, but she isn't going anywhere. SPOILERS (sort of) for 2x10


**Flying High**

The bodies coursing through the terminal jostle you, but you barely notice. Your mind is elsewhere, at Felix's loft, hovering over your dreadlocked love as she sleeps. No, scratch that - you might as well milk this daydream for all it's worth. Let's imagine you curled up in your girl's arms, limbs tangled as the two of you dream about brighter days to come.

Commercial airports have never been your cup of tea, but you're grateful today that Rachel's private jet is otherwise occupied. Transatlantic travel (with an armed Dyad guard who hasn't lightened his grip on your upper arm since you passed through security) is less frightening when surrounded by children shivering with excitement and old women clutching souvenirs and murmuring in their native tongue.

The flight to Frankfurt is 15 hours long, with one stop, two meals, and a snack included. You have no baggage- only the bag you had with you in the lab. There was no time (and no freedom) to go back to your apartment before leaving. Not that you would have wanted to. Not with reminders of Cosima quite literally saturating your joint living space. The flight to Frankfurt is 15 hours long, but you don't much care, because there's no way in the devil's hot red hell that you're getting on that plane.

You just need a plan. "WWCD" pops into your head. What Would Cosima Do? Your face morphs into a smile that surprises you, and the guard shoots you a nasty look. No chance of turning him into a fast friend, huh?

Trying to look apologetic, you shove your hands into your jacket pockets. And nearly stop dead in your tracks. It takes all the self control you have to tamp down the insane peels of laughter that are bubbling up in your chest. _Wait for me, Cosima_, you silently pray. _I'll be there soon. _

Now you just need a plan. Finally spotting a women's restroom that doesn't have a line out the door, you all but beg a moment of leave from the guard. He agrees reluctantly, stationing himself squarely in the doorway of the restroom.

You leave your bag with him, awkwardly slinging it over his shoulder and causing him to tense up. Let him be uncomfortable about the proximity of the hot french enemy of his employer. You don't care. You've already succeeded, already slipped your fingers past the rim of his jacket pocket.

You enter the restroom and round the corner of the hallway by the stalls. You lean back against the cool tile and give yourself a moment to breathe. James Bond never appealed to you, nor did his daring leading ladies. You never wanted intrigue. Only crazy science with a crazy (beautiful) scientist.

One more deep breath and you round the corner again, making a show of thoroughly washing your hands as the wall of muscle watches. Off you two go again.

Thanking your lucky stars that international flights leave from a gate that's practically in another zip code, you walk for what feels like forever. Then finally you see them. Walking towards you is a uniformed airport police officer and his dog. You're partial to puppies, but right now, you think that stately dog is the most beautiful mutt you've ever seen.

One more step, then another, until you're within ten feet of them. You stumble, catching their attention. And the dog goes nuts.

Tugging on his leash towards your less-than-friendly escort, it's as though you've paid him to do this. You'd think that man had steaks in his pockets.

The officers stops you both. Mr. Muscle protests, but Dyad isn't here right now to wave a pen and make the law disappear. The officer begins patting him down, and you stand aside- every inch of you begging to run, but this requires patience.

With gloved hands, the officer is holding the two joints now. Muscle is shaking his head, shouting angrily, but shouting is futile here. _Please come with me sir. I hear that you're upset sir, but there are no illegal substances allowed in this airport. You'll have to come with me to the office to fill out some paperwork. Sir, don't make me use force. Ma'am, you're free to go._

They turned their backs, Muscle still struggling against the (thankfully) equal Policeman Muscle's iron grip. And you're gone. You bolt. Run like cheetahs and bears are on your tail because Dyad reprieves don't last long, and you're not going to waste this.

Back to security. You actually jump over a turn-style (and will later be thrilled to tell about it). Out the doors, and onto the street. Hail a cab, and don't look back as the airport flies from view.

You're banging on Felix's door, shouting her name. The adrenaline is fading, and you're quite suddenly overcome with the possibility that you are, despite your efforts and the turn-style leap, too late. Then someone young is laughing and dragging a stool to the door to open the lock.

_She's happy. You're happy. Both of you are higher than your voices. And where did that helium come from anyway? You know this isn't appropriate (ever, really, but especially not in here in the lab), but those thoughts are so deep and you are so high, you barely take notice. The words that are begging to be said are pounding on the tip of your tongue and you are immensely and altogether consumed by her. She's wrapping your fingers around the papery joints and her lips are at your ear, whispering "For later." And as you slip them into your jacket pocket, you're picturing Later as her skin on your cotton sheets, attentive hands and lazy voices._

_The end._


End file.
